


Boots (Blood and Toil)

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Boot Worship, Degradation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29041302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: What I want more than anything is your boots on my face, you know, the ones with the diamond pattern on the soles, the ones that make that heavy thudding tread on the boards, the scuffs that polish won’t quite cover anymore but you know they fit you like your own skin.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader, August Walker/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Boots (Blood and Toil)

Listen. Listen. Fuck, it’s a mood, it’s _put me on the ground, please, tear me open and show me all the little glittering shards of me_. And it’s what you need more than anything, that tearing-down, and August will give it to you. 

( _Of course I know what you need. It’s written all over your face. But you still have to say it.)_

It’s not kind or considerate;

_What I want more than anything is your boots on my face, you know, the ones with the diamond pattern on the soles, the ones that make that heavy thudding tread on the boards, the scuffs that polish won’t quite cover anymore but you know they fit you like your own skin_

it’s exactly what you need, to have every fiber of his body saying _less than,_ the press of his hand at your shoulder sending you down _where you belong, under my heel._ And sure, it’s burning shame, but you’re at eye level with his toes and these boots have seen him through so many things; if you squint, maybe 

Maybe 

you can see old blood, there on the toe, soaked into the leather 

(Maybe a mark that went down too slow, maybe his own blood after a fight, maybe it’s a little left from you)

And he doesn’t call you _pet,_ doesn’t call you anything; you think you deserve a _name?_ God, you deserve only to be _on the ground, crawling, like a worm. You stay down— stay. fucking. down— I don’t want to see a single atom between your face and the floor._

_(Yes, that’s it, that’s right, that’s perfect)_

And it's terrible, the way he leans, the way he looms; he lays his heel careful on your cheek and there's that grind, that friction burn between the sole of his boot and your skin, between your face and the little splinters that work their way up from the floor. That's going to leave a mark, little diamond hatches bruised into your flesh and if you're lucky-- if you're lucky, tomorrow you'll look in the mirror and see it; you'll be pulled back to this moment and the way he palms himself and sneers.

_You want it so badly, don't you? Look at you. Filthy. Eyes on the fucking floor, you think you deserve to look at me? Tch. Look at that, you've gone and smudged my boot. Clean it._

And what you want, what you need, is this: the way he moves his foot but only to set it down before you; his toe is brushing your lips and you can't quite make that leap, can't quite cross that hurdle until 

_I said. Clean it._

you are compelled by the rasp in his voice, that softly shredded note of command, the one you know is because he is straining at his fly; he is moments and inches away from jerking himself til come spatters down hot on your face, but that's a moment for later; now is the moment where you lap at his foot, first with the point of your tongue, mesmerized by the shine it leaves across his toes; you're burning from your scalp to the base of your spine with the effort of lifting your head enough to lick at him. You're burning and the tears prick hotly at your eyes; this moment will consume you til all that's left is ashes. 

( _I've got you_ )

Under your tongue it's possible to feel every tiny scratch and flaw in the leather; every scuff is a sharp delineation between slick and sueded, and you could swear each texture has its own taste but that doesn't make sense. 

_Are you distracted? Have you got somewhere else to be? Somewhere better than here, underfoot, with your hands even free because I am generous? I can't see my face in the leather yet. Keep going. Show me how low you are._

And there will never be enough shine on the leather to see a reflection; that's the trap. That'll keep you down until he is either merciful or he grows tired of you; it's an endless pattern of lick and suck and the filthy wet moans he pulls from you even though he hasn't even touched you yet. And he won't, not today. Not while he sees you struggling with yourself, with the need to be pulled wet and weeping back to center.

( _How far is too far)_

And with all your tongue. _Taste me, where I've been, all the filth and blood and sweat_ and you will take it inside yourself. There you are in all your weakness and your nothingness; there you are on the floor, under his command and it doesn't matter if he doesn't let you look beyond his boots; all that matters, really, is the bulk of him burning furnace hot above you, a tangibly warm presence even at a distance. The only contact he allows is the toe of his boot at your wet and open mouth; distantly, you think about him pressing into you with those toes, but. 

_Stay down. Receive your blessing._ And there's that hot pitter-pat, that blood-warm rain of semen on your face, and you were denied even the pleasure of seeing him come undone. You didn't even get to see him draw himself out, or the pull of his hand as it closed around his cock. You missed it. And that's when the tears fall, little rounded drops that land on his foot and are hidden in the wet slick of your spit. Even that you lick away, salty and hot, til he's as clean as you can get him.

( _This far and no more_ )

And so he _hmms_ and crouches; he lifts your chin with finger and thumb and he sees all the wet and bruised mess of your face. _It's time to come back,_ he says, and he doesn't try to move you, not yet, but he does tug a blanket down and he watches. He watches as you're pulled back to your center, slow and steady. He watches, and he waits.


End file.
